Watch Her Stir
by a tattered rose
Summary: At first, it was a day for drinking. Except that Izzie was not a drinker, she was a baker. Maybe of these days, her days of drinking and baking, something good might come. AlexIzzie.
1. She is woman

It was a day for drinking. Drinking was bad, drinking never solved anything – she knew this. But she was an adult, and she knew that sometimes it did help, for a while, to be drunk. It was a tool, an anesthetic for the voice in your head that got you through med school and into surgical residency but drowns out the other voice which still whispers of one true love and happily ever after.

Except that Izzie was not a drinker- she was a baker. And so she was standing in the cramped kitchen at back of Joe's bar with a spatula in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other. Standing and knowing it was a very very nice thing that Joe had done, letting her into his kitchen with her baking supplies, and letting her take a bottle of alcohol after she had promised to be very very careful and not drink too much. She was knowing this and not thinking this because thinking was what sober Izzie did, and thinking was dangerous and she was baking and drinking in order to stop thinking. Thinking told her-

The knowing Izzie was wise. Maybe it was women's intuition that- no, not maybe. It was women's intuition, she could feel it, it was intuition guiding her steps now. She was women, watch her stir. And fold. Folding raisins into a delicate lemony batter might not sound impressive but it was just as hard to do right as surgery and lots of men worked hard to be surgeons and she could do that too, if she wasn't working right now on folding raisins into the delicate batter. And even these things, surgery and cakes, wasn't all she could do. She could also fold shirts, quickly and precisely into sharp little packets ready to slide into place in a drawer or a shelf.

She put down the bottle again, screwing the lid on tightly as if it were one of her ingredients. It was one of her ingredients. And not just for her day of drinking and baking, she was using it to soak some of her raisins. Neat and precise, she was baking, she was woman.

The door opened behind her and she knew it was Joe. Joe, who had been checking on her every fifteen minutes to make sure she was still okay. She was okay. She wasn't using knives, she always used oven mitts and she wasn't drunk yet but it was sweet of him to check on her. Especially since he didn't have to let her be back here, cooking in the kitchen of his bar and drinking a bottle of rum she hadn't even paid for yet. Izzie felt the sadness blossom out and force a solitary tear from her eye, and knew it was because Joe was a good guy and a good friend and she never imagined she would have a friend like Joe when she was grown.

"I'm good" she called out to him, laughing a little in a choked way because she knew it was silly to be sad over a man who was happy and well and alive and being a kind and good friend to her.

"Izz."

But the voice (she knew) wasn't Joe's, and she whirled around, still with spatula in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other. And laughed again, because she saw those things there in her hands and knew it was a pretty funny thing to see- a woman who was a surgeon baking in the cursory kitchen of the bar across the street from the hospital ORs, caught holding a dripping spatula in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other. Caught by a surgeon who frequented the bar, and whom she used to date and/or screw, in between the drama that was life in a life or death world. So she laughed and smiled and accidentally forced another tear from her other eye.

But Alex wasn't laughing, and he didn't laugh when he saw her. Just let the door close behind him and stood, watching her laugh and cry and hold her dripping amulets.

She saw his eyes on her trophies, followed his eyes as they tracked a lone drop of alcohol slipping from the bottom of the bottle and hitting the floor. She didn't know why he stepped forward, not until he had torn a paper towel from the roll and knelt on the floor, cleaning up her drips.

Sniffling a little as she turned Izzie was further struck by the incongruity of the two of them, here, with the smell of fresh cookies instead of the usual deep fried morsels. It was all wrong, the smell of home here in a bar. But she couldn't leave her baking so she took another swig of rum instead.

"Cookie? They're still warm, the chocolate chip, or a really good lemon cake will be done in a while, if you want to go wait." And she busied herself scooping the lemon batter gently into a floured pan and willed Alex to leave. Leave and not talk because if he talked to her she might have to think, and today was a day for drinking and baking. Not thinking.

"Izzie, what are you doing?"

He was standing back by the door, far away from her, but she felt her shoulders hunch forward in defense and turned quickly to place her batter in the oven, even though it hadn't had time to rise. That was the question she wasn't thinking about. Because she knew what she felt but knew it didn't make sense. Not really. Not in the end.

"Izz-"

"I'm baking. I'm baking cookies and cakes for Joe because sometimes that's what people need." After setting the timer she reached again for her bottle. "And I'm drinking. Because this is Joe's bar and this is what people do here."

Finally, finally she let herself meet his eyes, wishing he'd already gone. Alex took a step forward, and the look in his eyes was the old familiar one of understanding pity. The one that made you forget why he was ever called 'evil spawn' in the first place.

"All you have to do is survive." He took the bottle and took a sip of his own, putting a little color into his pale cheeks.

She didn't know why, but now she knew she was mad at him. "Is that what you do? Just 'survive' and everything is okay? I survive. Alex, I survive and I keep surviving but everything is not okay and I don't need you to tell me I can survive this. I can survive this, I can survive life all on my own, but if you think it's enough to survive you don't know me at all."

"Alex knows Izzie better than she thinks he does."

"Then tell me. Why do I feel it all over again? Like everything bad just happened, all at once. Losing my daughter, losing Denny, losing George. It all hurts, it hurts and I did, I did survive it but what's the point in surviving if you never really get better? If it never really heals but every time cut open deeper and harder?"

She was crying now, in earnest, and her anesthesia had stopped working because she felt everything, and it was no longer enough to feel sad and to hurt but she also felt everything she loved slipped away from her. How happily ever after and true love kept flitting within reach, only blow a raspberry and scamper away right before her hand closed around it. How she had never had anything, and would never have anything, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she survived.

Her day of drinking and baking had failed, and she no longer cared what Alex might say next. It didn't matter, better almost that he would turn and leave, than offer more platitudes.

The seconds stretched on as he didn't speak, but let his gaze trail down to the bottle still in his hand. Giving it a little swirl he offered it back, and she saw that he looked defeated, like her tirade had hadn't been words but punches from which he hadn't defended himself.

"Izzie, I love you."

"How can you tell me that? Is that supposed to help me? You cheated on me. You cheated on me Alex and you're in love with Ava. You love Ava and I'm just a safe fall

back and believe me Alex, that is not love. So why can't you leave, leave me alone." And she watched as her words hit him again, both knowing she was saying them to hurt him.

"Because it's true. I do, Izzie, even with everything else. And that's gotta count for something."

"Well, it doesn't. If it did, all it would mean is that I'm sorry for you. You're not the one, you never were."

"I'm not good enough? That's it?" He gave her a smirk, that pained, disdainful smirk he had, and stepped even closer with a hard look in his eyes that made her shrink back against the counter. "You want your fairytale ending Izz? All I'm saying is, you keep throwing it away before you even have a chance."

And he kissed her. Against her will. He kissed his ex-lover, the woman who was a baker who was a surgeon who could knit and fold and slice and dream, who was drinking and baking in the kitchen of the bar across the street from the hospital ORs. Kissed her fast so she didn't have time to pull away first. Then shoved the bottle of rum back into her hand and left quickly to do some drinking of his own, to dream that he was right and they did have a chance at a happily ever after.


	2. Of mice, men, and angels

Ch. 2: Of mice, men, and angels

Author's note: Ch 1 was a writing exercise. But I know what story-ish series of vignettes goes with it, and figured, why not?

This chapter started running long. So this is only the first half of what I had planned. Constructive criticism/comments very much appreciated and considered: I can always cut this up and move faster if this is unbearably tedious.

It was a day for baking. A day for baking and decorating because today, today Izzie had the day off and the house to herself and people who would be coming back tonight to enjoy the baking and the decorating, or at least the baking and the drinking. Though Izzie would enjoy watching them near the decorating as they ate the baking and drank the drinking supplies which, she now reminded herself, was another task for the day. It was a day for baking and decorating and a day for a trip the liquor store, since they were nearly out of booze and the only way her people would be coming home to look pretty next to the decorating was if there was booze here, and not just at Joe's. Baking, decorating, and a trip for booze was the whole of her day, would just take the whole of her day so long as she kept moving.

And she was moving. Up since 5 o'clock already, hands in constant motion with her baking as her mind ran through all the things her hands would be touching that day. Bowls and sifters, flour and cinnamon, holly and twinkle lights, garland and mistletoe...

And mincemeat pies. Mincemeat pies and thick gingerbread men with tiny candy coated buttons and delicate sugar-cookie angels with the crisp shine of melted crystal glaze. Men and angels holding hands, ringing in layers around the old silver platter she'd had since high school. Perfect in rank, almost, waiting for a flurry of confectioner's snow. Almost perfect, missing two from their ranks to complete the last circle.

She needed more.

She'd had them, she was sure. An hour ago on the cooling rack, there had been more than enough. More then enough to pick and choose, and now there were crumbs on the counter top, a counter top she had wiped clean while the last needed batches of men and angels filled the cooling racks.

Crumbs, too small for a mouse. Damn the Grinch, damn Dr. Seuss but she wanted to cry now. Not for the cookies, which no one really needed, but for the mouse, that poor little mouse, tiny and starving. Who needed the crumbs, big crumbs, to stay alive another day, and to stop herself from crying in earnest she dropped two more cookies on the floor and ground them into large chunks with her heel. And then took a gulp of brandy as she did start to cry, a little, because they didn't actually have any mice.

But that was her last sip, because she wasn't Meredith. She didn't drink through her problems. She was Izzie. She baked. And decorated. And she didn't have any real problems, not immediate, not sharp and painful. So she wasn't really baking or decorating. Not like that. She was working for pleasure and enjoyment alone. She didn't need to bake any more right now. She could do it later. She was efficient, and she had a whole day of work to arrange as she chose. So she left her covered ingredients on the now unswept counter, and took her brandy into the living room to unpack the decorations. She would bake more cookies later, so the fresh warm smell would coincide with Meredith and Christina getting off shift. Because tonight they all had off, and were going to drink and eat and enjoy.

Two hours later and the living room smelt of cinnamon because of the candles she had lit. And her fingers smelt of cinnamon because of the sticks she was tying with ribbon to hang on the tree. And her favourite Christmas CD was starting it's fourth randomized cycle because she was only half listening to it anyway. One song, for each of her tasks, was all she ever heard.

"An Angel Came Down" as she stood on a chair, stretching out to hang garland in overlapping swoops over the windows and bookcases. And then "An Angel Returned" as she ascended again, this time to add bows and bits of tinsel, and ponder the effect of pine cones versus simple shining ornaments. It was "O Holy Night" as she composed candle arrangements on the tables, lighting each one reverently as it was finished. "This Christmas Day" saw her at the mantel piece, where she compromised by hanging stockings with blank 'tags.' Everyone who came tonight could chose their own – she was decorating, and that was all. Which made "A Mad Russian's Christmas" a sparkling accompaniment to the frosting of the windows.

Which left only the tree. A tree so tall and large, she was laying out ornament by "Ornament" before tackling the multitudes of lights. She hadn't had too many of her own, but there was a box of Meredith's mothers full of spheres and angels, paper wreaths and popsicle stick Santas. The latter she left in the box – she doubted Meredith would want to see them, but had bolstered the former as part of her embarrassingly expensive rush of purchases the year before. They were beautiful even now, catching flickers of candlelight. Like they would be beautiful resting amongst the twinkle lights.

It was the twinkle she was pondering - the instant where light slips off a curved surface and hides - when the front doors banged open and closed angrily.

"You're home early – what happened?" Still holding a golden ball, she got up to administer any comforting Meredith might require.

But the voice was not Meredith's. "Nothing, I just got off."

And now she was facing the door, she saw it was true. And saw that it had started snowing, when she wasn't looking, and flakes were melting still on his coat as he paused in the entry to hang it up. Izzie realized she was staring when he finally looked over at her. Then let his gaze slip past to the yet unfinished room. "Looks nice. If you need any help..." But his tone told her his offer wasn't really an offer. Brushing her off like he hadn't bothered to with the snow.

"Oh. I thought you were on shift today. I was just... decorating, I didn't think anyone would be home." Looking down at her warped reflection now, as if it could tell her what to say so they wouldn't be stuck in this awkward moment to "The Prince of Peace."

It might have worked, at least he turned away. "Yeah, well, don't worry about it. I'm going upstairs."

"Alex, wait." The song had changed. And somewhere between the slump of his shoulders and their stabilizing friendship, and the memory of their "Old City Bar" exchange – she wanted to give him something real. "Can you help me with these lights? There's just a lot. Of lights. And the tree. It's just really... big." And now that she looked at it it was rather fat and tall, like a hulking giant baby in green come to be dressed. She couldn't help her lips from quirking upwards, and was relieved when her smile fed his and fed off his until they were both laughing companionably at nothing and and he was at her side, taking the strings from her hands.

It was like magic, the effect of laughter. And whenever the laughter began to fade one of them picked up the bottle again and suddenly the tangles and snarls were hilarious, the blown fuses a mystery to be solved.

"Hold up- you've got that end tangled around your-" But the warning came too late and Alex only just managed to catch her as she tripped.

"I'm the tree! We should just put presents under me!" She was still feeling too giddy to be overly concerned about the stabbing of the lights that dug into her arms where he'd grabbed her, or the sudden pain that had flared the moment her ankle caught and twisted. She was, after all, festooned and bedecked with Christmas revelry.

But the wait for his response was too long, and in the silence his eyes met hers with too little distance and too little levity. A look which only brought reminders of a night that might not have happened. That was fuzzy and vague and only came back to her in snippets of memories when she lay half asleep. A night he'd never brought up so she could never apologize. Maybe it had only ever been a dream. Disjointed and confusing with lips pressing hers and "I love you's" and no harsh words or anger.

This dream, this maybe memory was confusing when she was alone in the dark. Here in his arms it was terrifying. "You can put me down now." And her eyes slid away in shame as he set her upright. Shame on her for breaking everything. And she began to unravel herself as she waited to be hit with the simmering anger that was always in Alex. "Alex-"

But he surprised her again. "Shouldn't lights go anywhere else? We've got 'em all going on the tree."

He was calm and indifferent and it -must- have been a dream.

"No. Just the tree." And the room was suddenly darker, the sun had disappeared and in the artificial twilight his expression was soft and non-threatening and maybe she was still dreaming now. Because she felt warm and safe and a little dizzy, and not all her memories were very terrible. "I've always loved lights." And when he was silent she plugged in the strands and continued talking to the twinkling of lights on the tree, in her hands.

"Sometimes we used to drive around the streets in the rich part of town. With those giant brick houses that you know they didn't decorate themselves, they hired someone to come out and do it. Like in a magazine. But no matter what, there was always a tree in the window. And no matter what else they had, reindeers or giant snowmen or one place always decorated a tree outside, the tree in the window is always the first thing you see. Like a beacon leading the family home. And inside. Where it's warm and cozy when you're inside, it doesn't matter what you see when you look out the window because all you light you need is right there beside you." And as she spoke, still afraid to look at him, she ran her fingers though the needles and let them tangle through her hair as she leaned closer to peer out the window.

She could feel Alex come up behind her, and rest a gentle hand on her back. "Izz..." But his voice was gentle and for a moment she could confuse him with George. George, who was always so open and caring and always accepted who she was. Had always accepted her and cared for and understood. She was always Izzie, with George. And as if the old George was with the old Izzie, she continued to share.

"Of course all we had was the trailer but we didn't have much money either. Or room. To store things, you know? So we had this little plastic tree that I kept in my room and used to hang jewelry, and a shoebox full of ornaments I kept under my bed. Mostly one's I'd made. In school. But we had a couple from my grandma. And an angel for the top that my dad bought for my mom the first year they were married." Her eyes were itching, and she pushed away the tears with a shaking knuckle.

"The year I got my first job, I went out and bought all this greenery. All I could carry. It was the night before Christmas but it was cheap and I put it up so it would be there Christmas morning. And I decorated everything. And when I stood outside all I could see was the little Christmas tree inside, standing on a table, and it felt like home." When her eyes slipped closed she could see it again. The small but dense collection of light, nestled in a collection of soft shadows.

The hand at her back slipped down, rubbing her back gently in a way that almost felt like she was home. With her own lights and tree and family in a warm cozy room with egg nogg and presents. Almost.

"It sounds nice."

His voice, too, so low and comforting. Different than Denny's but she knew Denny would have sounded just the same. But warmer. They would have been married by now. And he would have wrapped his arms around her and her head would have fallen back to his shoulder, against his cheek, to feel warm and safe and together they would bask in the profusion of twinkle lights.

But Denny was dead.

And her back felt cold. Except for the spot his hand had come to rest against.

"Yeah. It was nice." Staring hard at the tree now, lights blurring with the intensity of her gaze as she remembered how nice it had been the next morning. Ripped down, stamped, shreds of needles tracked throughout the trailer and littering the area outside. Tree knocked over. Half her precious ornaments destroyed. The angel crushed beyond repair.

"Izz." Again. So gentle. "I like it." His hand slid around to her waist as he moved closer. "Your decorations." Her back almost felt warm, her body almost embraced. She almost leaned back, almost pulled his arm further to cross her stomach. "It reminds me of what my mom used to put up. When we- when I was little."

Almost leaned back. Almost pulled on his hand. She wanted to. But this wasn't Denny. This wasn't George. She was strong, she was woman, she could stand alone. So she pulled away.


End file.
